Little Steps
by WriterKos
Summary: Why do we have to rush so much? Couldn't we try to walk in little steps?


**Title: Little steps  
Author: WriterKos  
Rating: FR7  
Parings: none  
Characters: McGee  
Genres: Fluff, Character Study  
Warnings: none  
Summary: Why do we have to rush so much? Couldn't we try to walk in little steps?**

a/n: Ah, this is a fluffy one. It's inspired in a situation that truly happened with me. I hope you like it. One-shot, so be nice and leave reviews, ok?

Cars rush in a hurry trying to make it to the yellow light, while busy people rush to cross the street as soon the red light becomes green for pedestrians. In the hectic life of Washington DC, people were always coming and going, never stopping, always on the go, rushing somewhere, anywhere but here.

McGee rushes between the fast walking pedestrians, as he is late, and he still has to buy coffee before he goes to his work in the Navy Yard.

He decides to take a shortcut to the left, going through a more deserted street far off the busy avenue, with its pollution, honking cars and paths overflowing with people.

His long legs take him down the shortcut. If his calculations are right, if he goes two blocks down, then cuts to the right, and then walk another block, he will be right in front of his favorite coffee shop, and he might - just might - make it on time to the office before Tony, who will certainly tease him nonstop if he arrives late at work again.

He walks in hurried steps down the road, at the same time that he types a message on his iPhone to his sister, who he is planning to meet tonight, if there is no big case during the day and if he is finally able to leave on time this Friday.

He is not paying attention to where he is going; He's typing in a furious pace at the same time that he thinks about the things he will do when he finally arrives at the office. Some kind of sixth sense warns him of the impending collision, and he looks up at the last second before he runs over someone who is standing right in the middle of his path, blocking his way.

He freezes and tries to avoid the collision, throwing his body to the left and almost losing his balance, stumbling on his own feet in the effort not to mow down the person in front of him.

"Oh, dear, are you okay, my lad?" says a frail voice, and McGee finally finds his balance again and looks at his interlocutor.

It's a very old lady, her face lined with age and wisdom, her very white hair carefully combed into a tight knot in the back of her hair. Her smiling brown eyes stare at him worriedly, as he finally stands upright and looks at her carefully. Her orange jumper had seen better days, probably ten years or more ago. Her knee length gray skirt clashes with the orange jumper, but in no way tries to hide the very distinct characteristics of her legs.

"Hi, ma'am, I'm fine, sorry for almost running you over," says McGee, as he glances at her legs and forces himself to look up at her face, ignoring the situation from her waist down.

"That's good to hear, my dear boy. Now, would you be so kind to help me reach the end of the block? My knees hurt something fierce, and I'm tired."

"Ah, ma'am, ahh, I'm—" late he silently completes in his mind. He glances at his cell phone in his hand, points down the road, where he should be rushing down in order to get his coffee to finally run to his workplace, then looks down at the old lady, crippled by age and sickness, asking his assistance just to take some little steps.

"Ah, you're in a hurry. Ok, I'll rest a little then I'll walk up to my door. Don't fret. Go."

"Ah…" he glances at her, noticing how tight her fingers squeeze her cane, and how she struggles to stay upright.

He tries to take a step away from her, but his upbringing screams at his mind. He was brought up to be a gentleman, after all, and that is the utmost gentle thing to do. He glances at the old lady, standing there with her cane, puts his iPhone in his pocket and takes a step closer to her.

"Ma'am, where to?"

She smiles brightly at him, and puts her pale white hand lined with blue veins on the fold of his arm, which he gallantly offers her. She points vaguely to the end of the block up the street, and starts taking little steps.

"I live up there, just around the corner. My knees hurt, and I get tired easily. Ah, when I was young, how I liked to walk and run. I went everywhere."

McGee forces himself to shorten his steps in order to walk side by side the old lady.

"Really, where did you go?"

She smiles brightly at him, "Ah, I went around. I was a nurse for the Army. I've worked thirty-two years there, helping people heal their wounds. So many people suffering from wars and disease, someone had to help them. And now, I'm so happy, because I'm helped too."

Their goal seems so far away, as her legs can't take large steps as his, so they walk just a few inches at time.

"Thirty-two years, that's a long time."

"Yes, I've lived a long life. You see, I'm ninety-seven years old."

He stops, and looks down at her face, and she glances up at him and wiggles her painted eyebrows at him.

"That's amazing. I would never give you a day over seventy."

They smile at each other, and start walking again, taking little steps.

"You're a charmer. And a gentleman. That's a killer combination."

He chuckles, and they take another little step.

"If you say so."

"I know so. I grew up with four sisters and seven brothers. They used to say that I was a charming lady too, back in the day. My brothers, oh, they were so charming."

"Were?"

She sighs, and keeps walking.

"Yes, they are all dead. I'm the only one alive."

"Oh, my condolences."

"Do not fret; it was a long time ago. Decades really. My memory is very good. I'm quite lucid you know."

"I can see that," he answers smiling, touching her hand on the fold of his arm and supporting her to take another step.

"I remember things. Many things. My legs might betray me, but my mind is still there, firm and strong. I can remember far back. I can even remember the day my mother died, and I was only two years old at the time."

"Wow, I wish I had your kind of memory." He glances at her, then adds, "and I wish that, if I ever reach your age, I'm as lucid as you are."

"Ah, but you can do it, you know. Just watch your eating and exercise. Always."

They keep walking slowly, going up the street. A man walks by them in hurried steps, his hand firmly holding the wrist of a pre-teen boy, and he glances at the strange pair for a moment, walking in tiny little steps, trying to reach the end of the block. He smiles at McGee and drags the boy away, always in a rush. The old lady keeps talking.

"My knees hurt. A lot. My doctor - God bless him - doesn't want to operate. He can, but he said I can't take the anesthesia. I might die on the table, or even worst, become a vegetable. I would have to sign a paper, absolving him of anything that might happen if he cuts me in. So I told him no, I live with the pain, but with my brain fully functioning, but I don't want to die on the table."

McGee nods as he takes another little step, and he stretches his hand to support her back, as her knees falter and she almost falls, despite her hand on his arm and her firm grip on her cane. He looks at the papery like skin of her hand, and sees the gnarled fingers with thick articulations, probably resultant of late stage rheumatoid arthritis, with the typical swam-neck deformity of the fingers.

"I lived a good life. Yes, I did. My doctor told me that I'm almost one hundred years old, and I laughed at him."

She smiles brightly at him, and stops walking. McGee stops too, and looks at her, who is staring up at him.

"I told him that I'll be one hundred in two years and four months, and I plan to make it."

McGee laughs softly and looks around himself. They are standing in the corner of the block.

"I'm sure you will, ma'am. Where do you live? I'll take you to your door."

She taps lightly his arm, shaking her head softly.

"No need, boy, I live over there. Now off you go, you were late."

He looks to the door she pointed at, and indeed, it was just a few feet away.

"Do you need help in anything else, ma'am?"

"No need, boy. Thanks."

She releases his arm and starts walking slowly towards her door, leaning heavily on her cane. He observes her for some seconds, observing her difficulty as she takes tiny little steps with her deformed legs. Due to some reason, both her knees are terribly deformed, forcing her legs in a bent curve in an almost ninety degree angle with her femur. It's painful just to look at it, and he can't even imagine the intense pain she must go through as she supports herself on them to walk slowly around.

She stops and looks back at him. They share a meaningful look, and she says smiling.

"By the way, my name is Anna."

"Timothy. Timothy McGee."

She nods, and turns towards her door.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Timothy."

He waits until she reaches her door, opens it and disappears inside her building. He stares at the closed door for a moment, thinking about his life and his opportunities and blessings in his life.

He looks at his watch, sees that only a few minutes are gone since the moment he decided to help Anna. He smiles, taps his pocket where he placed his iPhone, and lazily walks down the road, towards his coffee shop, enjoying every single step he puts his feet on the floor without any hint of pain.

There's no rush, he knows how walk in tiny little steps now.


End file.
